Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

J >> Joseph Cottle >> Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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Another powerful reason, which should reconcile the friends of Mr.
Coleridge to this detail of his destructive habits, arises from the
recollection that the pain given to their minds, is present and
temporary. They should wisely consider that, though they regret, their
regrets, like themselves, as time rolls on, are passing away! but the
example,--this clear, full, incontestable example, _remains!_ And who can
estimate the beneficial consequences of this undisguised statement to
numerous succeeding individuals? It is consolatory to believe, that had I
written nothing else, this humble but unflinching narrative would be an
evidence that I had not lived in vain.

When it is considered also, how many men of high mental endowments, have
shrouded their lustre, by a passion for this stimulus, and thereby,
prematurely, become fallen spirits: would it not be a criminal concession
to unauthorized feelings, to allow so impressive an exhibition of this
subtle species of intemperance to escape from public notice; and, that no
discredit might attach to the memory of the individual we love, to
conceal an example, fraught with so much instruction, brought out into
full display? In the exhibition here made, the inexperienced, in future,
may learn a memorable lesson, and be taught to shrink from opium, as they
would from a scorpion; which, before it destroys, invariably expels peace
from the mind, and excites the worst species of conflict, that of setting
a man at war with himself.

The most expressive and pungent of all Mr. Coleridge's self-upbraidings,
is that, in which he thrills the inmost heart, by saying, with a
sepulchral solemnity, "I have learned what a sin is against an infinite,
imperishable being, such as is the soul of man!" And yet, is this, and
such as this, to be devoted to forgetfulness, and all be sacrificed, lest
some friend, disdaining utility, should prefer flattery to truth? A
concession to such advice would be treachery and pusillanimity combined,
at which none would so exult as the spirits of darkness.

If some of the preceding language should be deemed too strong, by those
who take but a contracted view of the subject, and who would wish to
screen the dead, rather than to improve the living, let them judge what
their impressions would be, in receiving, like myself, at this time, the
communications from Mr. C. which will subsequently appear, and then
dispassionately ask themselves, whether such impressive lessons of
instruction ought to be doomed to oblivion.

* * * * *

The following letter to Mr. Wade, has no date, but the post-mark
determines it to have been Dec. 8, 1813.

"... Since my arrival at the Greyhound, Bath, I have been confined to my
bed-room, almost to my bed. Pray for my recovery, and request Mr.
Roberts's[89] prayers, for my infirm, wicked heart; that Christ may
mediate to the Father, to lead me to Christ, and give me a _living_
instead of a _reasoning_ faith! and for my health, so far only as it may
be the condition of my improvement, and final redemption.

My dear affectionate friend, I am your obliged, and grateful, and
affectionate, friend,

S. T. Coleridge."

I now proceed further to notice Mr. Coleridge's reappearance in Bristol.

Mr. C. had written from London in the year 1814, to a friend in Bristol,
to announce that he was coming down to give a course of Lectures on
Shakspeare, such as he had delivered at the Royal Institution, London,
and expressing a hope that his friends would obtain for him as many
subscribers as they could. Great efforts were made to obtain these
subscribers, and the lectures were accordingly advertised, to commence at
the time appointed by the lecturer, and the place specified with the day
and hour; of the whole of which arrangement Mr. C. had received due
notice, and expressed his approval.

On the morning on which the lectures were to begin, a brother of Mr.
George Cumberland, (a gentleman well known in the literary world,
residing in Bristol,) arrived in this city from London, on a visit to his
brother, and casually said to him, "I came as far as Bath with one of the
most amusing men I ever met with. At the White Horse, Piccadilly, he
entered the coach, when a jew boy came up with pencils to sell. This
amusing gentleman asked the boy a few questions, when his answers being
what he thought unusually acute, the gentleman said, 'that boy is not
where he ought to be. He has talent, and if I had not an important
engagement at Bristol to-morrow, I would not mind the loss of my fare,
but would stay a day or two in London to provide some better condition
for him.' He then called the waiter; wrote to a gentleman in the
neighbourhood, with a pencil, urging him to patronize the bearer; gave
the boy five shillings, and sent him, with the waiter, according to the
address of the note."

This same gentleman, he said, talked incessantly for thirty miles out of
London, in the most entertaining way, and afterwards, with little
intermission, till they arrived about Marlborough, when he discovered
that the lady who was in the coach with them, was the sister of a
particular friend of his. "On our arrival at Bath," said the brother,
"this entertaining gentleman observed to me, 'I must here quit you, as I
am determined not to leave this lady, who is going into North Wales, till
I have seen her safe at her brother's door;' so here the amusing
gentleman left us."

"Why" said Mr. Cumberland, "I should not be surprised if that were
Coleridge, and yet that cannot be, for he has an appointment this day in
Bristol." "That is the very name," said his brother. Mr. G. C. remarked,
"This Mr. Coleridge is coming to Bristol, to give us a course of lectures
on Shakspeare, and this evening he has appointed for his first lecture,
at the Great Boom, White Lion." "Whatever the engagement may be," replied
the brother, "rely upon it you will have no lecture this evening. Mr. C.
at the present moment is posting hard towards North Wales!" The great
business now was for those who had interested themselves in the sale of
tickets for the course, to hasten round to the purchasers, to announce
that Mr. C. would be prevented from giving the lectures till further
notice.

In two or three days, Mr. Coleridge presented himself in Bristol, after a
right true journey into North Wales; and then, another day was appointed
to begin the course. The day arrived. His friends met in the afternoon,
full of anxiety, lest a second disappointment should take place. Not one
of them had seen Mr. C. in the course of that day, and they could not
tell where he had dined. They then set off, to find out this intricate
point, and having discovered him, after some difficulty, hurried him from
the bottle, and the argument, to fulfil his less important, or at least,
his less pleasing engagement.

He arrived at the lecture-room, just one hour after all the company had
impatiently awaited him. Apologizing for an unavoidable interruption! Mr.
C. commenced his lecture on Hamlet. The intention is not entertained of
pursuing this subject, except to remark, that no other important delay
arose, and that the lectures gave great satisfaction. I forbear to make
further remarks, because these lectures will form part of the London
narrative.

After this course had been terminated, and one or more friends had given
him five pounds for his ticket, so rich a mine was not to be abandoned.
Another printed proposal was sent round for a course of six lectures,
which was well attended. After this, a proposal came for four lectures,
which were but indifferently attended. Not discouraged, Mr. C. now issued
proposals on a new subject, which he hoped would attract the many; but
alas, although the subject of the lectures was on no less a theme than
that of Homer, only a few of his old staunch friends attended; the public
were wearied out, and the plan of lecturing now ceased, for these latter
lectures scarcely paid the expenses.

I should here mention, that Mr. Coleridge's lectures bore but a small
resemblance to the polished compositions of Sir James Mackintosh. They
were all of a conversational character, and were little other than the
earnest harangues, with which on all possible occasions, he indulged his
friends, so that there was little of the toil of preparation with him,
and if the demand had been equal to the supply, he might have lectured
continuously. But if there was little of formal and finished composition
in Mr. C.'s lectures, there were always racy and felicitous passages,
indicating deep thought, and indicative of the man of genius; so that if
polish was not always attained, as one mark of excellence, the attention
of his hearers never flagged, and his large dark eyes, and his
countenance, in an excited state, glowing with intellect, predisposed his
audience in his favor.

It may here be mentioned, that in the year 1814, when Buonaparte was
captured and sent to Elba, the public, expression of joy burst forth in a
general illumination; when Mr. Josiah Wade, wishing to display a large
transparency, applied to his friend Mr. Coleridge, then residing with
him, for a subject, as a guide to his ingenious painter, of which the
following is a copy, from Mr. C.'s original.

The four lines were chosen, of which the two last have something of a
prophetic aspect.

"On the right side of the transparency, a rock with the word Elba on
it: chained to this by one leg, put a vulture with the head of
Napoleon Buonaparte; then a female genius, representing BRITANNIA, in
a bending posture, with one hand holding out one wing of the vulture,
and with the other clipping it with a large pair of shears; on the
one half of which appears either the word 'WELLINGTON,' or the word
'ARMY,' and on the other, either 'NELSON,' or else 'NAVY;' I should
prefer WELLINGTON and NELSON, but that I fear Wellington may be a
word of too many letters. Behind Britannia, and occupying the right
side of the transparency, a slender gilded column, with 'TRADE' on
its base, and the cap of liberty on its top; and on one side, leaning
against it, a trident laurelled, and on the other a laurelled sword.

At the top of the transparency, and quite central, a dove, with an
olive branch, may be hovering over the bending figure of Britannia.

N. B.--The trident to be placed with the points upwards, the sword
with its hilt upwards.

We've conquer'd us a PEACE, like lads true metall'd:
And bankrupt NAP.'S accompts seem all now settled.

OR THUS.

We've fought for peace, and conquer'd it at last,
The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd fast!
Britons, rejoice! and yet be wary too;
The chain may break, the clipt wing sprout anew."

Returning now to the lectures. During their delivery it was remarked by
many of Mr. C.'s friends, with great pain, that there was something
unusual and strange in his look and deportment. The true cause was known
to few, and least of all to myself. At one of the lectures, meeting Mr.
Coleridge at the inn door, he said, grasping my hand with great
solemnity, "Cottle, this day week I shall not be alive!" I was alarmed,
and speaking to another friend, he replied, "Do not be afraid. It is only
one of Mr. C.'s odd fancies." After another of the lectures, he called me
on one side, and said, "My dear friend, a dirty fellow has threatened to
arrest me for ten pounds." Shocked at the idea, I said, "Coleridge, you
shall not go to gaol while I can help it," and immediately gave him the
ten pounds.

The following two letters were sent me, I believe, at or about this time.
They have no date.

"My dear Cottle,

An erysipelatous complaint, of all alarming nature, has rendered me
barely able to attend and go through with my lectures, the receipts of
which, have almost paid the expenses of the room, advertisements, &c.[90]
Whether this be to my discredit, or that of the good citizens of Bristol,
it is not for me to judge. I have been persuaded to make another trial,
by advertising three lectures, on the rise, and progress, and conclusion
of the French Revolution, with a critique on the proposed constitution,
but unless fifty names are procured, not a lecture give I.

Even so the two far, far more important lectures, for which I have long
been preparing myself, and have given more thought to, than to any other
subject, viz.: those on female education, from infancy to womanhood
practically systematized, I shall be (God permitting) ready to give the
latter end of the week after next, but upon condition that I am assured
of sixty names. Why as these are lectures that I must write down, I could
sell them as a _recipe_ for twice the sum at least.

If I can walk out, I will be with you on Sunday. Has Mr. Wade called on
you? Mr. Le Breton, a near neighbour of your's, in Portland Square,
would, if you sent a note to him, converse with you on any subject
relative to my interest, with congenial sympathy; but indeed I think your
idea one of those Chimeras, which kindness begets upon an unacquaintance
with mankind.[91]

'Harry! thy wish was father to that thought.'

God bless you,

S. T. C."

"My dear Cottle,

I have been engaged three days past, to dine with the sheriff, at
Merchant's Hall to-morrow. As they will not wield knife and fork till
near six, I cannot of course attend the meeting, [for the establishment
of an Infant School] but should it be put off, and you will give me a
little longer notice, I will do my best to make my humble talents
serviceable in their proportion to a cause in which I take no common
interest, which has always my best wishes, and not seldom my prayers. God
bless you, and your affectionate friend,

S. T. Coleridge.

P. S. To you who know I prefer a roast potatoe and salt to the most
splendid public dinner, the very sight of which always offends my infant
appetite, I need not say that I am actuated solely by my pre-engagement,
and by the impropriety of disappointing the friend whom I am to
accompany, and to whom probably I owe the unexpected compliment of the
sheriff's invitation.

I have read two-thirds of Dr. Pole's[92] pamphlet on Infant Schools, with
great interest. Thoughts on thoughts, feelings on feelings, crowded upon
my mind and heart during the perusal, and which I would fain, God
willing, give vent to! I truly honor and love the orthodox dissenters,
and appreciate with heart-esteem their works of love. I have read, with
much pleasure, the second preface to the second edition of your 'Alfred.'
It is well written."

Mr. Coleridge's health appeared, at this time, increasingly precarious;
one complaint rapidly succeeding another; as will appear by the three
following notes.

"1814.

My dear Cottle,

On my return home yesterday, I continued unwell, so as to be obliged to
lie down for the greater part of the evening, and my indisposition
keeping me awake during the whole night, I found it necessary to take
some magnesia and calomel, and I am at present very sick. I have little
chance of being able to stir out this morning, but if I am better I will
see you in the evening. God bless you,

Mr. Wade's, Queen Square.

S. T. Coleridge."

Written on a card.

"1814.

My dear Cottle,

The first time I have been out of the house, save once at meeting; and
the very first call I have made. I will be with you to-morrow by noon, if
I have no relapse. This is the third morning, that, thank heaven, I have
been free from vomiting...."

Mr. Coleridge having designed to attend Broadmead meeting, I sent him a
note to inquire if he would allow me to call and take him up; he sent me
the following reply.

"1814.

My dear Cottle,

It was near ten before the maid got up, or waked a soul in the house. We
are all in a hurry, for we had all meant to go to Broadmead. As to
dining, I have not five minutes to spare to the family below, at meals.
Do not call, for, if possible, I shall meet you at the Meeting.

S. T. Coleridge.

Mr. Wade's, Queen Square."

I must now enter on a subject of profound interest. I had often spoken to
Hannah More of S. T. Coleridge, and proceeded with him, one morning to
Barley Wood, her residence, eleven miles from Bristol. The interview was
mutually agreeable, nor was there any lack of conversation; but I was
struck with something singular in Mr. Coleridge's eye. I expressed to a
friend, the next day, my concern at having beheld him, during his visit
to Hannah More, so extremely paralytic, his hands shaking to an alarming
degree, so that he could not take a glass of wine without spilling it,
though one hand supported the other! "That," said he, "arises from the
immoderate quantity of OPIUM he takes."

It is remarkable, that this was the first time the melancholy fact of Mr.
Coleridge's excessive indulgence in opium had come to my knowledge. It
astonished and afflicted me. Now the cause of his ailments became
manifest. On this subject, Mr. C. may have been communicative to others,
but to me he was silent. I now saw it was mistaken kindness to give him
money, as I had learned that he indulged in his potions according to the
extent of his means, so that to be temperate, it was expedient that he
should be poor.

I ruminated long upon this subject, with indescribable sorrow; and having
ascertained from others, not only the existence of the evil, but its
extent, so as to render doubt impossible, such was the impression of duty
on my mind, I determined, however hazardous, to write to Mr. Coleridge,
and that faithfully, otherwise, I considered myself not a friend, but an
enemy. At the end of his course, therefore, I addressed to him the
following letter, under the full impression that it was a case of "life
and death," and that if some strong effort were not made to arouse him
from his insensibility, speedy destruction must inevitably follow..
Nothing but so extreme a case, could have prompted, or could justify,
such a letter as the following.

"Bristol, April 25, 1814.

Dear Coleridge,

I am conscious of being influenced by the purest motives in addressing to
you the following letter. Permit me to remind you that I am the oldest
friend you have in Bristol, that I was such when my friendship was of
more consequence to you than it is at present, and that at that time, you
were neither insensible of my kindnesses, nor backward to acknowledge
them. I bring these things to your remembrance, to impress on your mind,
that it is still a _friend_ who is writing to you; one who ever has been
such, and who is now going to give you the most decisive evidence of his
sincerity.

When I think of Coleridge, I wish to recall the image, of him, such as he
appeared in past years; now, how has the baneful use of opium thrown a
dark cloud over you and your prospects. I would not say anything
needlessly harsh or unkind, but I must be _faithful_. It is the
irresistible voice of conscience. Others may still flatter you, and hang
upon your words, but I have another, though a less gracious duty to
perform. I see a brother sinning a sin unto death, and shall I not warn
him? I see him perhaps on the borders of eternity, in effect, despising
his Maker's law, and yet indifferent to his perilous state!

In recalling what the expectations concerning you once were, and the
excellency with which, seven years ago, you wrote and spoke on religious
truth, my heart bleeds to see how you are now fallen; and thus to notice,
how many exhilarating hopes are almost blasted by your present habits.
This is said, not to wound, but to arouse you to reflection.

I know full well the evidences of the pernicious drug! You cannot be
unconscious of the effects, though you may wish to forget the cause. All
around you behold the wild eye! the sallow countenance! the tottering
step! the trembling hand! the disordered frame! and yet will you not be
awakened to a sense of your danger, and I must add, your guilt? Is it a
small thing, that one of the finest of human understandings should be
lost! That your talents should be buried! That most of the influences to
be derived from your present example, should be in direct opposition to
right and virtue! It is true you still talk of religion, and profess the
warmest admiration of the church and her doctrines, in which it would not
be lawful to doubt your sincerity; but can you be unaware, that by your
unguarded and inconsistent conduct, you are furnishing arguments to the
infidel; giving occasion for the enemy to blaspheme; and (amongst those
who imperfectly know you) throwing suspicion over your religious
profession! Is not the great test in some measure against you, 'By their
fruits ye shall know them?' Are there never any calm moments, when you
impartially judge of your own actions by their consequences?

Not to reflect on you; not to give you a moment's _needless_ pain, but,
in the spirit of friendship, suffer me to bring to your recollection,
some of the sad effects of your undeniable intemperance.

I know you have a correct love of honest independence, without which,
there can be no true nobility of mind; and yet for opium, you will sell
this treasure, and expose yourself to the liability of arrest, by some
'dirty fellow,' to whom you choose to be indebted for 'ten pounds!' You
had, and still have, an acute sense of moral right and wrong, but is not
the feeling sometimes overpowered by self-indulgence? Permit me to remind
you, that you are not more suffering in your mind than you are in your
body, while you are squandering largely your money in the purchase of
opium, which, in the strictest equity, should receive _a different
direction._

I will not again refer to the mournful effects produced on your own
health from this indulgence in opium, by which you have undermined your
strong constitution; but I must notice the injurious consequences which
this passion for the narcotic drug has on your literary efforts. What you
have already done, excellent as it is, is considered by your friends and
the world, as the bloom, the mere promise of the harvest. Will you suffer
the fatal draught, which is ever accompanied by sloth, to rob you of your
fame, and, what to you is a higher motive, of your power of doing good;
of giving fragrance to your memory, amongst the worthies of future years,
when you are numbered with the dead?

[And now I would wish in the most delicate manner, to remind you of the
injurious effects which these habits of yours produce on your family.
From the estimation in which, you are held by the public, I am clear in
stating, that a small daily exertion on your part, would be sufficient to
obtain for you and them, honour, happiness, and independence. You are
still comparatively, a young man, and in such a cause, labour is sweet.
Can you withhold so small a sacrifice? Let me sincerely advise you to
return home, and live in the circle once more, of your wife and family.
There may have been faults on one, possibly on both sides; but calumny
itself has never charged criminality. Let all be forgotten, a small
effort for the Christian. If I can become a mediator, command me. If you
could be prevailed on to adopt this plan, I will gladly defray your
expenses to Keswick, and I am sure, with better habits, you would be
hailed by your family, I was almost going to say, as an angel from
heaven. It will also look better in the eyes of the world, who are always
prompt with their own constructions, and these constructions are rarely
the most charitable. It would also powerfully promote your own peace of
mind.

There is this additional view, which ought to influence you, as it would
every generous mind. Your wife and children are domesticated with
Southey. He has a family of his own, which by his literary labour, he
supports, to his great honour; and to the extra provision required of him
on your account, he cheerfully submits; still, will you not divide with
him the honour? You have not extinguished in your heart the Father's
feelings. Your daughter is a sweet girl. Your two boys are promising; and
Hartley, concerning whom you once so affectionately wrote, is eminently
clever. These want only a father's assistance to give them credit and
honourable stations in life. Will you withhold so equitable and small a
boon. Your eldest son will soon be qualified for the university, where
your name would inevitably secure him patronage, but without your aid,
how is he to arrive there; and afterward, how is he to be supported?
Revolve on these things, I entreat you, calmly, on your pillow.][93]

And now let me conjure you, alike by the voice of friendship, and the
duty you owe yourself and family: above all, by the reverence you feel
for the cause of Christianity; by the fear of God, and the awfulness of
eternity, to renounce from this moment opium and spirits, as your bane!
Frustrate not the great end of your existence. Exert the ample abilities
which God has given you, as a faithful steward; so will you secure your
rightful pre-eminence amongst the sons of genius; recover your
cheerfulness; your health; I trust it is not too late! become reconciled
to yourself; and through the merits of that Saviour, in whom you profess
to trust, obtain, at last, the approbation of your Maker! My dear
Coleridge, be wise before it be too late! I do hope to see you a
renovated man! and that you will still burst your inglorious fetters, and
justify the best hopes of your friends.

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